


Of Mothers and Memory

by kaneklutz



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bad Parenting, Character Study, Chinese Martin Blackwood, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin Blackwood Needs a Hug, Mother-Son Relationship, Sort Of, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 3, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 4, Spoilers for the magnus archives, canon typical self hatred, suicide ideation (mild)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27856585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaneklutz/pseuds/kaneklutz
Summary: “Have I ever told you about my mum?”-There is a story to be told, of two people, a mother and a son. Of their history together, and the sacrifices they made for each other. Perhaps they loved each other once, but that thread of connection has weakened on one end, fraying away. And it is so, so cold.-A story about Martin Blackwood and life growing up with his mother.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Martin Blackwood’s Mother, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36
Collections: TMA Big Bang 2020





	Of Mothers and Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This was written for the TMA Big Bang, and if you click on the collection, you can read other wonderful fics from writers who also participated in this event! Be sure to give them a read :]
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to all the artists, please go like, reblog, and follow! I'll be attempting to embed their work, and links are below as well! Go check them out, they all do such amazing, amazing work and you'll be all the happier for having seen it.
> 
> [By](https://vestolaris.tumblr.com/post/636533705848045568/piece-loverdontleaves-fic-for-the-2020) Remy, aka [vestolaris](https://vestolaris.tumblr.com/)  
> [By](https://corvidtowers.tumblr.com/post/636538189933379584/my-piece-for-loverdontleaves-fic-made-for-the) Hound, aka [corvidtowers](https://corvidtowers.tumblr.com/)  
> [By](https://vanroesburg.tumblr.com/post/636536005333237760/begin-photo-id-a-digital-drawing-of-a-jon-and) Van, aka [vanroesburg](https://vanroesburg.tumblr.com/)  
> Additional thanks to everyone who participated in this event, as well as the mods! Love you guys so much, thank you for organizing this event :]
> 
> Content Warnings:  
> Emotional and verbal abuse from Martin's mother throughout  
> Self hatred on Martin's part, more or less throughout  
> Body-shaming from Martin's mother, part 2  
> School bullying, part 3  
> Mild suicide ideation, part 5  
> Illness, specifically a heart condition (unspecified in the piece), part 5 onwards  
> Care homes (not in detail, mentioned), part 8  
> Hospitals, part 8  
> Major character death, part 9  
> Descriptions of food and eating, parts 1 and 5
> 
> The majority of these are on the milder side, but I would never want anyone to be upset if there was a way for me to at least warn them of what they're about to read, so the content warnings are there for y'all to use or not use. If I've missed anything, please let me know.
> 
> Additional disclaimer:  
> I am Chinese, and a first generation immigrant (born in the country I currently reside in, with parents born elsewhere) just as I headcanon Martin to be! However, my experience differs from Martin's in a number of ways. Most importantly, I live in a place with a large East Asian community (west coast Canada), and obviously have the privilege that comes with that, as well as the difference in years, being that I am significantly younger. Thus, I do not portray any racism towards Martin because I don't feel I could do it justice, and avoid touching on that as much as I might otherwise do. My heritage is also specifically tied to Hong Kong, and though a lot of research was done, I may have confused some things or left important details out. So, if you are Chinese and want to tell me that I've messed up, please do! I am definitely willing to learn.

1 \- a warm kitchen 

There is nothing quite as striking as the season of winter. 

Outside, the darkness that falls in the early afternoons swallows his street whole, reducing the houses around him to foreign silhouettes and indistinct shapes. The streetlamps don’t work anymore, haven’t for days. Martin’s fingers sting as he presses them against the smooth, icy-cold surface of the window. He lifts them away from the glass hastily, and rubs his pudgy hands together in an attempt to warm them. 

When Martin leans closer, he can see his reflection in the window, all dark messy hair and round eyes set on a chubby face. He cups his hands into binoculars, presses them against the window and peers outside despite the lack of anything in particular to see. Indeed, there is very little. Only the windows of his neighbours, lights faintly emanating from behind tightly drawn curtains, and the city lights in the distance, streets and streets away. 

Once, when his mother was sleeping and he hadn’t been allowed to make any noise for fear of disturbing her, his father had taught him a trick. Martin opens his mouth, and exhales heavily all over the glass, fogging it up with condensation. When a good amount of windowpane is covered, he proceeds to draw squiggly shapes with his finger, little smiling faces and shapes like circles and hearts, just as his father showed him. 

It fades away almost immediately, and he frowns in disappointment, a childish pout tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“Martin?”

His mother’s voice floats in from the next room, and Martin scrambles down from the old wooden stepping stool he used to reach the window. The last time he was caught standing on it, his mother gave him an earful, shouting and shouting until she ran out of steam and sent him off to bed without dinner. 

“Martin, where are you?” She’s louder this time, and her words only precede her by a moment before she walks in, long black hair tied back with an apron knotted around her waist. 

He looks up to her, and she looks down at him, face drawn into a weary mixture of apprehension and disapproval. It’s not often that she doesn’t catch him in the act of some ill-conceived plan, but this is, fortunately, one of those rare times. Her shoulders relax a little, but she doesn’t smile at him. 

“It’s time for dinner. Come to the table.”

He follows her on slippered feet, into the kitchen. The room is warmer and brighter than the rest of the house, and he stands in front of the oven with its slightly ajar door, soaking in the warmth for a moment. 

Tall chairs and tables aren’t as much of an obstacle as they were when he was smaller, and it’s much easier now to pull himself up onto the seat. He’s often told that he’s tall for his age, whether by a smiling doctor or by his mother, bemoaning how quickly he grows and how often she has to purchase new clothes for him. 

A large ceramic pot sits in the centre of the table, and steam wafts from the crack between lid and pot. Beside it is a platter of naan bread, and he reaches forward eagerly before his mother’s hand slaps his own away. 

“Wait,” she says firmly. He nods obediently, kicking his legs as they dangle above the floor. Best not to upset her, his father always says. Martin sits on his hands and rocks back and forth while his mother ladles out hot soup, noodles, and chicken into a chipped bowl. The dish is topped with goji berries and red dates, pops of colour and flavour in the otherwise savoury meal. His mother gestures loosely at the plate of bread when she slides his bowl towards him. As he reaches out to grab a piece, she begins to serve herself.

“Where’s Dad?” he asks between slurps of noodle, dipping the piece of bread into the broth with his left hand. It’s delicious, and although his tongue and the roof of his mouth are both burning from the heat, he continues to eat quickly all the same. 

His mother, sitting across from him, is as poised and refined as always, eating her own stew with her chopsticks held delicately in comparison to Martin’s white-knuckled grip. “Don’t talk while you chew,” she says. It’s a common response to hear from her by now. “He called, said he would be late for dinner.” 

“Oh, okay,” Martin says easily, making sure to swallow the chicken he’s eating before responding. “This is really good, Mum.”

For a moment, his mother’s lips curve into a slight smile. Her brows lay horizontal, contrary to their usual pinched, angled shape, and the creases in her forehead smooth out. She looks almost happy, and he smiles back at her. 

“I’ll teach you to make it yourself, when you’re a little older. It’s a simple dish, and you’re almost old enough to start learning to cook anyways.” 

He nods around another mouthful of bread. Usually, his mother doesn’t let him into the kitchen when she’s cooking. It was always something about how he was constantly underfoot and too much of a distraction, or how he was clumsy and would likely end up tipping a pot of boiling water over himself. Which wasn’t necessarily untrue, but he was excited to spend more time with her, doing something she liked. 

They finish eating quickly enough, and he does his best to help with the washing up, even as his mother tsks when he nearly drops the ladle. Precariously stacked bowls and plates make their way into the sink without much fanfare, along with the ceramic pot, although there is a brief moment of terror when he nearly over-balances on the step stool. 

“Mom?” he says questioningly, standing beside her and drying off bowls with a dishcloth. 

“What is it?” she responds vacantly, elbows deep in sudsy water. 

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Why do you ask?” she says, turning to him with narrowed eyes. “Martin, did you break something _again?_ I’ve told you not to touch the pottery cabinet, everything there is far too fragile for you to play with.”

Martin shakes his head, frowning in dismay. “I didn’t, Mum, I didn’t!” 

“Then why ask?”

“I just...is Daddy mad at me? He’s never here when I wake up, or when I go to bed anymore.”

His mother is silent for a long time, and when it feels like an eternity has passed without an answer, he tugs at the edges of her apron, trying to prompt a response.

“Stop that,” she admonishes. After another brief moment of hesitation, she begins to speak, slowly, as if weighing every word that comes out of her mouth. “Your father’s not upset. He’s busy with work, he has to provide for us. Everything is fine, Martin.”

The response is easy enough to accept. Daddy needs to work so they can make money, and have clothes, and eat good food and keep living here. He nods, satisfied, and immediately drops a pair of chopsticks onto the floor, much to his mother’s displeasure. 

That particular conversation ends there, at least for that night. 

(Even then, he remembers thinking her voice sounded odd. It’s only much later, far too late, that he realizes she must have been holding back tears.)

* * *

2 \- end of an era

It’s late summer when he sees his father for the last time. 

Martin’s birthday was a week ago, and with it came the slight rush of confidence children get from turning a year older. That slight sense of maturity and pride, despite the fact that nothing’s really changed. Even though he’s a year older, and has been alive a year longer, it certainly doesn’t mean a year wiser. 

Perhaps that’s why he didn’t expect this. Everything had been going so wonderfully right, so how could he have predicted that this would happen? 

But then again, there really was no way for him to realize that this was coming. 

When he looks back on that day, years later, he still can’t remember there being anything wrong. There are no warning signs, no indications that this particular day would be of such significance. Maybe he’s just too stupid to see them. 

His mother sits in the living room like she always does on Sunday mornings, and reminds him that she’ll be going shopping in the afternoon when he walks out the door. Martin goes to the library, like he’s been doing all summer, and then walks around the neighbourhood, lazy and absentminded like all children are free to be during these months of precious freedom. 

Bright August sun beats down on his neck, and he winces as he remembers the forgotten sunscreen, sitting in the bathroom at home. It’s an unusually hot day, the likes of which he’s rarely seen, and Martin’s all too grateful for his choice of a t-shirt and shorts, and sandals that flip and flop because the bottoms are beginning to peel away. 

(Before he left the house this morning, his mother had looked him over with an expression of slight disapproval, staring pointedly at his thick thighs and arms. Martin chooses to ignore this, as usual.)

As he continues on his walk, aimlessly wandering through the suburbs of a neighbourhood he’s found himself in, with a small pile of books in his arms and sweat pouring down his forehead, Martin stops to stare at a house. 

It’s lovely, all red brick and white accents, both deliciously cozy looking and refined. Through the window, he can see a family of four: father, mother, and two children, all sitting around a table. They each appear to be holding a hand of cards, and smiling brightly. The father tilts his head back, laughing jovially, as the two children bicker back and forth across the table. The mother looks gently amused, eyes crinkling as she smiles softly at the scene around her. 

It’s heartwarming, like a scene out of a book, a peaceful moment of familiarity and tenderness. Only the realization that he’s been standing too long, staring too long, forces him to tear his gaze away. He takes a step, and another, forces his feet to carry him away from continuing to be a voyeur of a scene that is not for him. 

This neighbourhood isn’t for him. These people aren’t his family. 

When he arrives home, the house is dark and silent. He checks his little plastic wristwatch, shiny red with two little knobs on the side. 6:25 PM. It’s late, oddly so, because his mother should have started dinner by now, as she usually does. He peers into the kitchen, sees it to be dark, empty, and cool. 

“Mum?”

No response. His dad should be home anytime now too, so dinner’s usually almost ready, but it isn’t. A shiver runs down his spine, and that familiar feeling of anxiety settles in the pit of his stomach. 

Just as he’s about to go back to his room, there’s the sound of something breaking, and both silence and glass are shattered. The noise came from his parents’ room. 

Without thinking, he opens the door and pushes in, eyes scanning across the room for the source of the disturbance. At the foot of the bed, his mother curls into herself on the floor, broken glass scattered all around her. A picture frame lies face down. 

“Mum, the glass, it’s broken! Be careful!” 

She doesn’t respond, head bent to her chest, facing away from the door. Martin feels something in his heart spike, twinge sharply and twist. Concern? Fear? He’s not sure, but it doesn’t feel good to see his mother curled up so small and tight, all alone. 

“Mum, what happened? What’s wrong?”

This time, she does raise her head, turning around to reveal a devastated face, splotchy red and tearstained. Her eyes bore into him, and he flinches unconsciously. 

“Get out.”

“But Mum, the glass–” 

“I said get _out,_ Martin, _out._ ” But instead of rising to reprimand him as she usually would, her head only falls weakly back down, and she heaves a quiet sob. They remain like this for a moment, Martin frozen in the doorway, his mother on the floor, crying quietly. 

Eventually, he goes to fetch a dustpan and broom, like he’s been taught to do every time he breaks something (which is often), sweeps away all the glass, and dumps it into the kitchen garbage bin. When that’s finished, he picks up the picture frame and sets it back on the dresser. 

It’s a picture of him, his mother, and his father. They’re at a park not far from where they live, on one of his father’s few days off. He remembers his mother telling him to go ask a stranger if they could take a photo for the family, and being far too shy to do so. His father had been the one to ask in the end, and in the picture they’re all smiling. Martin’s own face beams out at him, a cheeky grin stretching his face wide, and his father smiles too, a lighthearted quirk of his lips. His mother’s smile is smaller, less visible, but he can see the slight crinkle of her eyes. She too looks happy, for once. 

Martin turns to her, still sitting on the floor. “We can fix it, or get a new one, can’t we? Please don’t cry, Mum.” 

Instead of replying to him, she laughs, short and hollow, like there’s something missing from inside her, some secret component that makes laughter sound happy and genuine. It’s strange, because she never laughs when she’s happy, and when he tries to think back, he can’t remember the last time she did. When she’s happy, she smiles her small, soft smile, or gives him a pat on the head. 

She laughs, and it’s a broken sound, more of a cry for help than the crying ever was. Martin walks closer, sits down beside her, and tries to pat her on the back. 

“Please don’t cry,” he says. That’s what the teachers at school taught the class, one rainy afternoon back in March. He remembers that class well, because it had felt important at the time, more than anything he’s ever been taught at school. 

When someone’s crying, you pat them and sit with them, and you talk to them so they’ll feel better. You tell them not to cry, and that you’re here with them, and you stay until they feel a little less sad. Sometimes you can ask to hug them, or they’ll ask you to hug them, and that’s okay too. 

His mother doesn’t really ever hug him though. 

“You need to leave,” his mother says quietly. Her voice is raw, and her breaths are irregular, rough inhales and slow, shaking exhales. When she reaches up to swipe away the tears from her eyes, he watches her hands tremble. 

He frowns, and doesn’t go. “Mum, why are you sad? Is there anything I can do? Dad should be back soon–”

A sharp crack interrupts him and he jumps, shoulders tensing in surprise, but he doesn’t leap away. His mother’s fist is against the wooden baseboard of the bed, and he winces. A bruise is sure to form soon. 

“Your father isn’t coming back soon, Martin.”

“But…” he tilts his head, confused. “But it’s almost 7! He’s always back by 7 unless he’s late or he doesn’t come back at all, but he usually calls if he’s not coming!” 

His mother shakes her head, long black hair falling into her face. “He’s not coming back, Martin. Not tonight, not again. He left us, and he’s not coming back.”

Though he doesn’t truly understand the weight her words carry, though he doesn’t yet grasp the meaning of _never,_ something about the defeated tone in his mother’s voice speaks volumes. 

He doesn’t respond. They sit together in her bedroom as the sun goes down, side by side as the light dies, and the room is enveloped in grey. 

It’s summer, and yet he’s never felt so cold. 

* * *

3 \- cruelty and the written word

Martin _loathes_ being tall. 

He watches all his classmates prance around, puffing out their chests and straightening their spines, tilting their chests to the ceiling and teetering around on tiptoes just for those precious spare centimetres of height. 

While they hold their heads high and backs straight for all that they’re worth, Martin shrinks down as far as he can go. It never works, of course. He is still too tall, too big. 

Too noticeable. 

“Marto!”

_Not again._

He turns around, slowly, with his eyes fixed on the ground, knowing what’s coming. 

James, a boy in his year who is, unfortunately, the epitome of the Cool and Popular stereotype, stands in front of Martin with an innocent smile and his usual group of friends clustered around him. It’s almost funny, the age-old trope of pathetic, weak, unpopular loser facing off against a group of bullies. Except he’s all too sure that there won’t be any sort of fairy godmother or secret relative ready to whisk him away. 

“What is it?” he asks, reluctantly, when James doesn’t speak. It’s his way of teasing, of forcing his prey to dance for him. Ignoring him hasn’t worked well for Martin in the past, and he isn’t eager to get on James’ bad side too quickly. Better to be the trod-upon fool than someone who tries to stand back and has to fend off the wrath of the whole school. 

“Good to see you!” James says, disregarding Martin’s question with an errant wave of his hand. “I’m really liking that look on you, very cozy, very homely.”

Martin fidgets with the sleeves of his jumper, feels where the edges are fraying away from old age. They’d had a lot of trouble finding one that fit him, and his mother had grown so thoroughly exasperated that when they finally found something in his size, she hadn’t particularly cared about the condition of it. 

“Anyway,” he continues, stepping closer to Martin, “I was wondering if I could ask you something?”

Letting his eyes fall shut, just for a split second, Martin takes a slow, careful breath. _It’s going to be okay. This won’t matter in a few years. Just let them do what they want, and then they’ll get bored with you._ It’s suspicious, of course, because everything James does has a reason, and that reason tends to be either bullying or blackmail, but Martin’s always been a little too stupid, a little too slow on the uptake to get himself out of the situation.

“Yes?” He curses his hesitant tone, the lilt in his voice as he spoke. 

“What’s that?” James asks, pointing at the stack of notes and textbooks held in Martin’s arms. 

Martin looks down at his books, then back up at James. He’s missing the joke, as usual, but so are the rest of James’ cronies, who appear to be as confused as he feels. Shrugging his shoulders, he ignores the ice cold feeling of dread creeping down his spine. 

“Wh-what’s what?” 

“Your notebook.” 

“What?”

Before Martin can react to find out what James wants with his maths texts, a hand reaches out and plucks a small, spiral bound notebook from his arms. It’s bright blue and fits easily in one hand, a full page being perhaps the length of his palm. 

Martin sees James holding that notebook in his hand, and feels the world ending. 

“Oh, n-no, James, please give that back–”

As Martin takes a step forward, James backs away, his friends flanking him on either side. He flips at the pages, riffling them with his thumb. 

“You’re always writing in this. What is it, a diary?”

“No, it’s not, it’s just notes and things, give it back,” Martin says. The humiliation curdling in his stomach is immeasurable, and he loathes himself for begging, but there’s no way he’ll be able to live down James reading the contents to the entire hall of students. 

Of course, the book opens. James begins to flip through the pages, scanning across them with narrowed eyes and a slowly growing smile that stretches across his face. 

_“Poetry?”_

Martin’s never been one to blush, or turn heated from embarrassment. He simply freezes in place, like he’s been shut in an icebox, thrown into the Arctic wastelands. He squeezes his eyes shut, begs and pleads with himself to not cry, not now in front of everyone. 

“Please, just give it back,” he whispers again. 

“Alright, class, it’s time for our poetry unit! Everyone listen closely!” James says louder, and Martin ducks his head in shame as other students, previously caught up in their own conversations, turn their heads to listen.

“Snow gathers, falls on the ground as silent as a sparrow’s landing, as silent as a whisper,” James recites, as the laughter swells all around them, reaching a fever pitch as Martin folds in on himself. 

“Damnit, James, please just give it back, give it back or I’ll–”

“Oh?” James looks up from the notebook, tilting his head in mocking curiosity. “Tell me, Blackwood, what’re you gonna do? What _can_ you do?”

Martin flails to find something, anything to throw at the other boy, something to defend himself with, some scathing commentary or burning insult. But his head is fuzzy, pounding in time with his heart, and he feels both so utterly stuck in this moment and a thousand miles away. He raises a hand, ever so slightly, and can see it tremoring. 

“Please.” It’s all he has left. “Just give it back.”

James considers him briefly, and his gaze seems to bore into Martin’s very soul, as he lets the silence linger, a fragile lull in their conversation amidst the laughter and jeering all around. 

“No,” he says at last, with a shrug and a smirk. “Don’t think I will, actually. Think I’ll toss it out. Might have to get someone to bring it straight to the landfill, wouldn’t want to hurt the poor caretaker’s eyes if he’s got to see it.”

Martin lets his eyes close, and the tears that have pooled in the corners slip out, trail down his cheeks in shiny streaks. He stands there, all alone in a crowd of watching peers, and has never felt so disgustingly small. 

The chimes of the bell interrupt them, and students begin to disperse, heading off to their next classes in waves. At last, it’s only James and a few members of his gang, and Martin, frozen in place. 

A smack echoes, and Martin opens his eyes to see the notebook at his feet, and James’ outstretched arm from when he must have tossed it. 

“Have it your way.” James says with a bored shrug of his shoulders, scrunching up his face. “Come on, everybody. We’ve got better things to do than stand around looking at this waste of space.”

And like clockwork, they trail after him. James, their leader. Perfect, respected, well liked, and better than Martin will ever be. 

(Here is the boy, standing alone in a school hallway with an armful of books and eyes filled with tears. He is useless, wretched, and pitiful. The notebook lying at his feet mocks him along with everyone else. He picks it up, and makes his escape.)

When he arrives home, his mother takes one look at his tearstained face and tells him, “Wash up, you look a mess. And come down right after. I need help with dinner.”

He obeys wordlessly, even though his heart aches with the scorn his mother so easily tossed his way. What he would give in that moment for just one word of reassurance, a single kindness. Could that not be afforded to him?

As he scrubs his face with a worn washcloth, he makes eye contact with his own blurry reflection. 

_God, Mum’s right. No one wants to see that._

He turns the taps to freezing and lets the ice cold water run over his hands until they are numb, so cold that it hurts and yet feels like nothing to the touch. Then, he turns off the taps, dries his hands, and takes one last look in the mirror. 

Pitiful.

Martin closes the bathroom door and goes to help his mother with the cooking. 

* * *

4 \- attending to one’s legacy

As the door swings silently shut behind him, Martin sinks to the floor, letting out a long, quiet breath. He sits, leaning against the wall, and just breathes quietly for a moment. It’s been years since he needed a reminder that his mother required absolute silence when she was sleeping, ages since he’d been scolded for not being quiet enough or careful enough. Half of it is fear, the terror she’d instilled after all those times he closed a door too loudly, or had let the whistle of the kettle wake her. All those times she’d scream and curse, and he would cower in fright, because she’s always been so much more powerful, so much stronger. Even as he towered over her in height, she was stronger. 

The other half, of course, is love. Care, consideration, a dedication to protecting her, because they have no one else left but each other, and it’s his duty to wait on her, as the only son. And, perhaps selfishly, he wants her to need him in her life, wants her to care that he’s here at all. 

He forces his breathing to steady into a continuous, rhythmic inhale and exhale. She’s sleeping now, which is good news, because they both get so little these days. Tonight, regretfully, he may not get any at all. The pile of textbooks on his desk seem to mock him, stacked high as they tower over him. So many things he doesn’t understand, and no one to ask for help. 

Exams first thing tomorrow, and it’s already past 1. His mother had spent all evening sick, leaving him with no time at all to study. There’s a guilty feeling in his chest for even being upset about this, because it wasn’t fair for him to be irritated, it wasn’t right. She didn’t choose to be ill. It was necessary to take care of her, he couldn’t very well just leave her on her own. 

So he stands up, feeling a wave of exhaustion almost overtake him. Scrubbing at his eyes, he forces his eyes wide open, and flips through the first textbook. The words seem familiar, and understandable, but if he doesn’t stop squinting, everything turns into a blur, and he’s so _tired._

The chill seeps into the room, and Martin sits, illuminated by a solitary lamp, world weary and unprepared for what tomorrow will bring down upon him. 

(He does alright. It’s not enough.

“Mum, I’m sorry, I just–”

“No excuses, Martin, this isn’t _good_ enough. What do you think these marks will bring you?”

He flinches at her tone, at the words cutting into him harsh and cold as ice. “I’m sorry,” he repeats softly.

“What use does sorry do? Will sorry get you better grades? A future? A good life? Money?”

“No, Mum, I’m–” he bites off the incoming apology, knowing that she doesn’t care what he has to say. “I’ll do better,” he settles on, knowing that he won’t. 

As she falls into another coughing fit, he goes to the kitchen and brews two cups of Oolong tea, as an attempt at another apology, and to ease her throat a little. 

They drink together. She doesn’t thank him. He doesn’t speak. The tea doesn’t fix anything.)

* * *

5 \- lessons to be learned

Martin quickly learns that he has no value in the world. 

It’s a cold, cruel lesson for a 16 year old boy to learn, but he learns it nonetheless. Internalizes the fact that by himself, he is worthless, and moves on. Doesn’t bear thinking about, after all. As much as he loathes himself, that self–hatred won’t make him into a better person. 

Getting a job isn’t easy, with that in mind. 

(“So, why do you want to work for this company?”

“Er, I need the money?”

“Thank you for coming.”)

He stammers during interviews, mixing up words and tripping over his own feet. Often, he’s far too honest in the worst ways possible, has next to no resume to speak of, and isn’t much good for anything other than lugging boxes around. 

Every time he comes home at night, laden with groceries and the weight of a long, painful day on his shoulders, he thinks about giving up. 

Or, not giving up exactly, but just giving in. Letting the world sweep him into the gutter to rot, no longer fighting against what seems to be his destiny. It would be so easy to just not get up in the morning, wouldn’t it? Starving to death, alone in his bed. 

It’s a morbid, overdramatic thought that only passes through his mind in the heat of the moment when he stubs his toe, drops the eggs, and sits on the kitchen floor covered in yolk crying for ten minutes before he can collect himself enough to clean up. But it’s not a thought borne out of nothing. 

He gets up. 

He puts the rest of the groceries away, mops the floor clean, saves the empty carton for planting seedlings. His mother always talks about wanting a garden, even more so when he was younger, though they never had the time. 

The next day, Martin buys a cheap little packet of seedlings and takes some soil from a neighbour’s garden. If it’s missed, then so be it. He carefully drops seeds in each hole, pats soil over top, and leaves them by the kitchen window, making sure to water them each day. 

When the seedlings have grown a little, and the bright green leaves are poking out from the dirt, stretching towards the sunlight, he sees his mother smile at them. It’s enough to keep him going, just a little longer. For her, if nothing else. 

As the weeks and months pass, he gets a little better, day by day. He learns to write a better resume and CV, starts lying about what jobs he’s had before and about the skills he has. After all, just because plain and simple Martin didn’t know how to do much, didn’t mean he couldn’t lie about it a little. 

The bit of school French he picked up becomes “fluent in French”. The few weeks he spent as a server for the bistro in Oldham became “worked as the head of wait-staff at Chadderton’s Bar & Grill”. As he grew more desperate, the lies grew more ambitious, and more absurd. 

But he’s getting interviews, and those are better as well. He learns to pass off his nerves, turn them into a gently flustered persona, masks the fear he feels behind soft smiles and sheepish, friendly grins. Masters the ability to duck into bathrooms just in time for a panic attack to overtake him, learns to hide the fact that he’s in the middle of an anxiety attack so that no one notices he’s mere seconds from passing out. Failures and successes pass by in a whirlwind of exhaustion, but he’s improving. 

If only he could put these skills on a resume. 

When Martin finally nails a more stable job, he’s euphoric. It’s not enough to get by, not quite, but with a couple more odd jobs every few weeks and his mother’s wages, it’ll be more than enough. He doesn’t have enough time or energy to even consider taking the time to celebrate, but that night he makes a proper dinner for him and his mother, and tells her the good news. 

They sit across from each other, Martin smiling brightly, his mother with her usual foreboding expression, despite looking smaller and frailer each day. She hasn’t yet questioned why he’s so happy, and he fidgets, trying to find an opportune moment to break the silence that stretches on. 

“Mum, I got a proper job,” he begins slowly. 

His mother looks up from her rice noodles, frowning, the ever familiar crease between her brows deepening. 

“What do you need a job for? You’re still in school, you can barely pass your classes. Focus on studies.”

Martin shook his head. “Mum, we can’t get by with just what you make, and it’ll be a lot easier for both of us with this job, instead of just–”

She sets her chopsticks down with a clink, and he winces. _Here we go._

“Are you saying what I make isn’t enough for you?”

“No, no, Mum, I didn’t mean that, I just meant, you know, sometimes it’s not enough to pay for groceries and things, so I thought it would be better to have a bit more? For food and rent and all that?”

No response. She picks up her chopsticks again and continues with her meal, ignoring Martin. He sighs, poking at his own bowl while his appetite fades away. They’re eating rice noodles, served cold, with slices of pre-packaged lunch meats. It’s a nice meal for the summer, one that he remembers his mother preparing years ago when she was a little happier, and healthier. 

When he sets his bowl down, emptied and practically licked clean, she still hasn’t gotten through half of hers. 

“Do you want me to pack it up for later if you’re not hungry?” he asks quietly. 

“Are you not going to let me finish eating my food now?” she snaps back, taking another bite. 

“No, I just meant maybe you weren’t hungry–” Martin cut himself off, shaking his head. “Sorry, Mum. Take your time.”

She ignores him, and continues to eat at that same slow pace. In the end, she only has a few more bites before pushing away the bowl and getting to her feet to place it in the sink. 

Only, she doesn't make it all the way. 

Martin watches, frozen in helpless horror as her knees buckle and she collapses. The bowl slips from her hands and falls to the ground, hitting the floor at an angle and shattering into pieces. 

“Mum!” he cries out, rushing to stand up. “Are you alright? What happened, did you slip or something? Do you need help standing? Mum?”

His mother lies on the floor, breathing shallowly, unresponding. 

“Mum?” he says again, quieter, dread building in his chest, flooding his organs like ice water. He takes a step closer, wanting to help but not knowing where to start. 

She pushes herself up and he rushes to help her sit. They remain together on the kitchen floor, him doing his best to support her weight, while she looks away. Martin can tell she wants nothing to do with him or his help, but he can’t very well just leave her here. 

They stay on the floor for a while, until she snaps at him to help her up. He does so quickly, half-carrying her back to her bed. When she’s settled and almost dozing off, he leaves to quietly sweep up and pack away the rest of the food. 

Late at night, he lies awake in his own room. 

Martin isn’t religious, though his mother was. Christian, because the school she’d gone to back in Yunnan had been. They’d never really gone to church together, she’d stopped when his father had left, and Martin hadn’t been baptized at birth or really raised to believe in God. 

But he’d never been one to pass up on the possibility of some good fortune, or a blessing. 

“God?” he asks quietly, lying on his back in the dark. The blankets are pushed, with the sticky heat of summer keeping him from burrowing under layers of fabric. 

“I don’t– I don’t think you’re real,” he starts. _Oh hell, that’s awful, why would you say that?_

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t, you know, didn’t want to make it out like I’m one of your followers or whatever, right? Because I’m not. Sorry. Never was one for religion, nothing personal. I think it would be nice, to believe in a higher power and all. Just never been for me. Never had the time for that.”

He takes a deep breath. “But, er. I guess this is a last resort? Not like you should be a last resort or anything, that’s not what I mean.”

_This is going well, Martin, real spectacular._

“Christ,” he whispers to himself in irritation, and immediately claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Not supposed to do that, right?” 

To no one’s surprise, there’s no reply. 

“Anyway, can you please just look after my mum? I’m worried for her. If it helps or anything, I think she’s one of yours. Priorities and whatnot, if there’s a list of people you keep an eye on or something. I just–”

He can’t bear to say the words, make something so terrifying real by putting it out into the world. 

“Help her be okay? Please?” he asks, voice small in the cramped, overheated room. 

There isn’t a response. He hadn’t expected anything less. 

It takes him a long time to fall asleep that night. 

* * *

6 \- moving up in the world

It’s a desperate gamble, this. 

Martin’s not sure how he got it into his head that this was a good idea. Sure, he’s been lying on resumes for almost as long as he’s been applying to jobs, and sure, this was technically just another falsehood in a long list of stretched truths. But he was reasonably sure, more or less, that he’d never tried to lie about having a masters degree in some spooky paranormal thing to apply for a job at a prestigious institute.

Well, he says it's prestigious. Really, Martin just means well-paying. Nice and fancy enough to give employees a decent wage that wasn’t just scrapping the edge of ‘not minimum wage’. But not _prestigious._ He can’t fake it well enough somewhere real, somewhere professional. Which leads him here, to an overlooked, underappreciated “institute for paranormal activity”. 

Perhaps it’s a money laundering front. That’s probably the only answer for how a place like this is still in business. 

He’s more than a little surprised when he actually gets an interview with the Magnus Institute for a position working in their library. Sure, he faked a lot of his credentials, lied furiously and blatantly about his experience, but an interview? He hadn’t expected it in the slightest. 

In all honesty, he’s terrified. Martin’s reasonably good at faking interviews, yes, but most of those positions were more for customer service skills than somewhere with any academic value, and this is far, far out of his depth. Not to mention the whole lying about a degree thing. He spent the past night feverishly reading articles about parapsychology and library work, and none of the information seems to be sticking. 

Now, he’s standing in front of an old building with signs of wear and tear making it appear somehow more elegant and refined than it would without, tucked away somehow on a busy street. People’s eyes seem to almost sweep over it, despite its relative size, and Martin nearly walks past it himself before he sees the words “Audio. Vigilo. Opperior.” Presumably some sort of fancy Latin motto. 

God, everything about this place had to be intimidating, didn’t it? 

Whatever. He doesn’t think he’ll get in, anyways, and the best case scenario is that they don’t realize the degree to which he’s been lying about himself. 

_Master’s fucking degree in parapsychology. You didn’t even graduate sixth form._

He swings open the door, and is met with a brightly lit, clean lobby. The walls are lined with paintings, and a small sitting area to his right is filled with plush looking chairs. At the far end of the lobby is a reception desk, situated between two sets of stairs. One leads up, the other downwards, and seemingly much less well lit. A woman sits at the desk, hands clacking furiously away on a keyboard while she balances a phone between ear and shoulder. 

“Yes, Mr. Bouchard, I’ve scheduled your 3 o’clock appointment with the Beaumont patrons, and 5 o’clock is your meeting with Mr. Lukas, and then that’s you free for the rest of the night. No meetings tomorrow, and I do have a few things for you to sign that just came in today from the Fairchilds–”

She looks up from her computer monitor at that moment, and Martin makes eye contact with her. “I’ll wait,” he mouths at her, smiling sheepishly. 

Shaking her head, she says, “Sorry, Mr. Bouchard, I have to go, somebody’s here,” and sets the phone down on its receiver with a loud clunk. Her fingers resume their furious speed on the keyboard, and she glances back and forth between the monitor and Martin. When he looks closer at her, he spots a name tag pinned to her lavender cardigan reading “Rosie, Head of Reception.” 

“Hello, welcome to the Magnus Institute, head of paranormal research facilities in the United Kingdom, welcome to our place of residence! If you’re here to make a statement, please tell me if you’d prefer to use a private room to write down your experience, or speak with one of our archival assistants in person. The room is available on the left, if you take the staircase down one floor and turn right, you can’t miss it.”

Martin stands awkwardly, waiting for her to finish speaking before he responds. “Er, I’m not actually here to make a statement? I’m–”

“Here to use the library? You do look like you’re the right age, but we get more for statements than for research. It’s rather a gamble, one I’ve been losing more often than not.” She looks him up and down, and Martin fiddles with the sleeve of his button-up shirt. 

“If you’re here for the library, I’ll need some sort of identification, as well as your signature on a few papers if you’re here to access special documents. The librarian can give you further instructions on access to those, and if you need to access something specific she’ll be able to tell you whether we have it in our possession.”

“I’m not here for that either? Well, I am a bit here for the library, but not to– I’m– I’m here for an interview,” Martin finishes nervously. 

Rosie pauses, makes a couple final edits to whatever she’s typing, then clicks at the screen with her mouse before standing up. “Ah, my apologies. Mr. Blackwood, isn’t it? Deeply sorry for wasting your time, Mr. Bouchard is expecting you. Right on schedule, I’m sure he’ll appreciate the promptness. This way, please.”

They walk to an elevator Martin didn’t see earlier, shiny and decorated with wood panels and chrome buttons. Rosie’s talking, something about how recently this had been installed, but he can barely hear her through the rush of anxiety he’s experiencing. As the elevator rises to the sixth floor, he nods in response every few moments as she speaks, and tries not to be violently sick. 

They exit, Rosie’s heels clicking against the polished floor, and continue down a corridor, whose walls are decorated with paintings and plaques. There aren’t as many rooms here, and up ahead at the end of the hallway is what Martin assumes to be Mr. Bouchard’s office. He bites his lip, trying not to pick at his cuticles or wring his hands too much. 

“He’ll call you in when he’s ready,” Rosie says, gesturing at the cushioned bench beside the door. “Take a seat, and just head out the way we came when you’ve finished, alright?”

Martin nods mutely. It’s not the politest he’s ever been, far from it, but if he opens his mouth he fears he might throw up. 

“Best of luck,” Rosie says, and leaves him to panic alone. 

It feels like there should be a clock ticking while he waits, an ominous sound counting down the seconds to his doom, but it’s dead silent, without even the hum one expects from office chatter. Abruptly, he realizes how very, very cold it is in the building, almost the same temperature as it is outside, in late fall. Martin shivers, pressing his legs tighter together and sinking further into himself for warmth. He tries his best to remain still, too afraid to disturb the quiet. 

Across from him is a painting of a man, with greying hair and wrinkles, pale with a plump looking face. Squinting at the little metal plaque beside it, he can make out a date, title, and name. James Wright, 1973-1996, Head of the Magnus Institute. 

Looking at the painting, it’s already quite detailed, but the eyes are what draws him in most of all. They’re almost too hyper realistic, brighter than the rest of the portrait, and it looks as though someone must have spent hours just fleshing out the tiniest details. Martin can’t bear to look at them for too long, and ends up staring fixedly at the ornate frame instead. 

Five minutes pass before the door swings open, and Martin straightens up in surprise. 

A man dressed in a well fitted suit, hair styled neatly and glasses perched on his nose, stands in the doorway. His eyes are narrowed slightly, and he smiles pleasantly, extending out a hand. 

“Mr Blackwood, I presume. You’re here for the interview?” 

Martin gets to his feet, nodding, and reaches out to shake the man’s hand. “Yes, I am. Are you Mr. Bouchard?” 

The man tilts his head. “Naturally. I oversee all interviews here. I’ve found that it’s best to meet potential employees myself, rather than hire someone to cast that judgement for me.”

Martin flushes bright red, fighting the urge to hide his face in his hands from sheer embarrassment. “Right, sorry, of course you are.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Martin fights between the instinct to look down, to make himself as small as possible, and the need to make eye contact, seem professional, and cling to the tiniest change of saving any face whatsoever.

But then Mr. Bouchard opens his mouth again, and says, “Not to worry, nerves affect the best of us.” Stepping aside, he gestures at his office. “Come in, why don’t you? We may as well begin.”

* * *

7 \- to care for and to keep

It is, to say the least, difficult to adjust when it comes to working at the Institute. But Martin’s determined to make this work, refuses to lose this stupid job at a place where nothing makes sense and he has no idea what he’s doing and is dreadfully underqualified, because _fucking_ hell if the pay isn’t the best he’s ever gotten. When he first tells his mother the news, she scoffs at another new job, but for a moment, she seems just a little bit proud of him.

He knows that he would do anything for that little bit of pride. 

So he figures out ways to ask for help without letting it slide that he has no idea what he’s doing, and makes friends with Rosie, who turns out to be incredibly funny, as well as kind and useful. 

(“So, Penelope from the library likes Joshua, but he’s not really in a dating mood after he broke up with his last partner, and I’ve heard that she keeps trying to ask him out for drinks after work. Poor girl, it’s highly unprofessional but I don’t think it’ll go anywhere enough for us to say anything, so keep this quiet.”)

A few of his fellow library staff are nice enough to let him tag around with them when it comes to shelving books, under the guise of “being a bit spooked by how big the place is”. Genuinely, it’s hard to tell whether Martin lacks the basic understanding required to work with the organization system that they have here, or whether it’s just a poorly designed system. Judging by how even his colleagues get confused and frustrated, it’s likely the latter, which is all the better for him. 

Still, it’s horribly stressful, and every moment is one spent living in fear, waiting for the day he’ll make a mistake too large and reveal himself as a fraud. For every success comes the guilt of knowing that he’s just getting lucky, and for every job well done there’s a mistake that he has to promptly scramble to cover for. He quickly garners a reputation for being a bit scatterbrained and easily flustered, and while it’s not exactly a title he would choose to maintain, it’s something to work with, to take advantage of. 

When he gets home at night, he makes dinner for his mother and himself, then promptly collapses straight into bed, usually just barely remembering to set an alarm for the next morning. The work week takes a lot out of him, with the amount of stress that’s built up over time, and between working and caring for his mother (whose fainting spells have gotten worse, and who refuses to go see a doctor) he has time for nothing else. 

Weekends, however, are an opportunity to relax.

He wakes an hour later than usual, makes breakfast for his mother, and then leaves her to her own devices, content to sit in his own room. It’s a good chance for him to relax, catch up on a few hobbies he enjoys, and do some research about things he should probably know for work, all with a nice cup of tea. 

After an hour or so of scribbling in his little poetry notebook, writing and rearranging and trying to figure out why exactly the balance of that particular stanza was so awkward, he hears his mother calling from her own room. Martin sets down his notebook and pen, and stands to walk over to his mother’s room, poking his head in the door. 

“Martin, I need your help.”

His mother is seated in front of the little vanity he’d brought home for her one evening after seeing it at a yard sale. It’s a simple piece of furniture, with an oval mirror and a couple drawers, slightly battered but very serviceable. He thought it would go well with the rest of the furnishings in her bedroom. 

At the time, she dismissed it as garbage, with its dents and nicks and scratched up wooden sides, but she’s used it often enough and without a sour look on her face, so Martin likes to think that she’s grateful. 

“Of course, Mum. What do you need help with?”

“I’m not in the mood to have my hair cut, but I would prefer it out of my face,” she says, gesturing at her long, thin hair. “However, I’m too tired to braid it back myself, so I’m going to teach you, and you’ll follow my instructions.”

“Oh!” Martin chews the inside of his cheek nervously, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know if I’ll be very good at braiding, but I’ll do my best.”

“You’re my last resort, Martin, it doesn’t matter if you’re any good, only that you’re serviceable.” It’s cold, but true, and he can’t blame her for calling him a last resort, even though it makes him just a little bit more numb inside. “And besides, I taught you how to knit well enough, and you picked that up surprisingly easily,” his mother says, gesturing at him to come closer. “Hopefully, you’ll pick this up just as quickly.” 

Per his mother’s instruction, he kneels behind her as she sits in the stool and loosely gestures out how to form a simple braid with her hair, streaked with white amidst the black, and explains how to overlap the strands into a plait. 

Like the knitting, it doesn’t take him as long as he feared to get accustomed to it. The process is almost meditative, and he finds himself almost wishing he had hair long enough to do this with himself. It only takes him two tries to assembly something to his mother’s satisfaction, and he smiles, feeling a little spark of accomplishment. Carefully, he ties the braid with a ribbon his mother supplies, and stands as she tilts her head right and left, trying to see if there’s anything in need of correcting.

“Thank you, Martin.” 

She doesn’t praise him for a job well done, but he takes the gratitude, holds it close to his heart. 

“I think I’ll sleep for a bit now,” she continues, standing slowly. “Try not to be too loud or cause a disturbance.”

Though she does her best not to show it, her legs shake when she’s standing, and she clutches at the edge of the vanity for a moment. Martin offers out an arm to help her, and after a moment of hesitation, she takes it. He guides her over to the bed, and she climbs in carefully, pulling the covers up. 

“Sleep well, Mum,” he says softly. 

* * *

8 \- correspondence

 _The following is a series of phone calls and letters between one Sarah Jizhi Blackwood, and one Martin K Blackwood._

(A letter addressed to Sarah Jizhi Blackwood (née Yang), folded neatly and placed between the pages of “The Complete Works of John Keats”, to be mailed.)

_Dear Mum,_

__

__

How are you doing? I hope everything’s alright and that you’re well. Is everything going smoothly at the nursing home? I’m really sorry I haven’t had the chance to visit yet, I know I’ve said I would a lot. Work’s been keeping me late, and I usually end up missing visiting hours. I will see you soon, promise. 

Hopefully you’ve met a couple friends there, since I know you did want a chance to meet more people. An opportunity to see new faces and all that. Even if you’re not friends with them yet, hopefully there’s at least a couple people you like? Everything’s better in good company, right?

Anyway, my life’s been going well. Work’s kept me busy, and I got reassigned to a different department recently, the archives, just after my last letter. My boss is a little prickly, and I accidentally let a dog in on my first day (long story!) when there were really not supposed to be dogs there, but I hope he’ll warm up. My boss, I mean. I hope he warms up. 

My other coworkers are pretty nice, I saw them around the library a bit when I was working there, I think they used to be in the research department? Tim’s super friendly, and Sasha’s really nice and funny. I think you’d get along with her! She helps out when I really don’t have a clue what I’m doing, which is pretty often, to be honest. I’d really gotten familiar working in the library, and this transition is going to be a bit difficult. 

I’m sure it’ll work out though! 

Hope you're doing well, love you lots, 

_Martin ♡_

(A conversation on the phone between Sarah Jizhi Blackwood (née Yang) and Martin Blackwood, june 9th, 2016, shortly after Martin Blackwood is forced out of his flat by the hive.) 

“Mum?”

He holds his breath, begging her to pick up as his knees press tightly to his chest. The storage room is dark, and cold, and the little electric lamp that Sasha brought him isn’t enough to stave off the shadows cast by tall shelves in the windowless room tucked away deep within the Institute. 

There’s barely any reception here, really, and he doesn’t know whether the call will work with the one bar of reception he has, but he’s too scared to leave, too afraid that somehow, _she’ll_ find him, and he’ll be eaten alive, consumed after two weeks of barely surviving in his cramped little flat. 

If he has to eat one more canned peach, he thinks it may not be worth surviving. 

Finally, there’s a click. 

“Mum? Hello?” 

“Martin?” his mother responds, voice tinny and slightly glitched over the phone. “It’s late. Did you not check the time? What is it?” 

He blinks. The time?

Casting a glance at his watch, his eyes widen. “Oh no, Mum, I’m so sorry, it’s so late, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I just didn’t realize what time it was and I really needed to call you, I’m sorry.”

“I’m awake now, check the clock when you call,” his mother says, dismissive as always. “What’s this important news that I needed to hear right away?”

_Oh._

He can’t tell her. Of course he can’t, she would never believe him. What’s he going to say, the creepy paranormal investigation place that he works for got him into some trouble, and he just escaped his flat after two horrible weeks of listening to a singing worm lady attempt to lure him out with the maggots living in her body? 

“Oh, I just wanted to say that I won’t be at my flat for a bit, there’s been a bit of– er, an infestation, so I’m staying with a– a friend,” he says lamely, floundering for something to say that would make sense to her. “And I was a bit sick, earlier this week, so I haven’t had the chance to call as much. Sorry about that.”

There’s a slight pause, and then his mother replies. “It’s fine. Very kind of your friend to let you stay with him.”

Neither of them note that she couldn’t care less where he was staying, nor did she ever really seem to care whether he called her or not. Their conversations were always the same, him desperately trying to say something interesting, her short, stilted replies. 

“Right, yeah, it was,” he says, trying not to think about Jon. Martin had been fully operating under the foolish assumption that he could just go back to his worm-filled flat, and hadn’t realized it wouldn’t be an option for a while until Jon had told him he could stay in the Institute for as long as he needed. 

Really, thinking about it now, he didn’t exactly want to go back there. He thinks about sitting in front of the television, with dinner and a cup of tea, pretending that he’d never huddled in front of that very same television wrapped in blankets and holding a broom and baseball bat for protection, all alone and terrified. 

“Oh, and I got a new phone because mine er, I lost it. So if you want to call, don’t call my old number! I won’t be picking up,” he says, laughing awkwardly. His mother doesn’t laugh with him.

“If that’s all, I’m going back to sleep,” his mother says, and it’s clear in her dismissive tone that it had better be all. 

“Alright, yeah, get some rest, Mum. Love you,” he responds automatically, the words slipping off his tongue as hollow and empty as he feels. 

“Goodnight, Martin.” 

The phone clicks, and he is left in silence once more. Shivering, he pulls his knees tighter against his chest, and waits for sleep to come.

(A Christmas card with a border collie wearing a santa hat. It sits in front of a christmas tree bedazzled in lights, with stacks of presents surrounding it. The above slogan reads “Merry Christmas from my paws to you!” The card is addressed to Sarah Jizhi Blackwood.)

_Merry Christmas, Mum!_

__

__

I hope you have a lovely holiday. I know that you wanted to celebrate with some of your friends, so don’t worry about me! I have a work party, and you know I’ll be alright with being alone for an evening, it’s not a big deal. All that matters is that you have a great time with everyone at the home. Have a wonderful Christmas, and Happy New Year if we don’t have a chance to talk before then!

_Love, Martin_

(A conversation on the phone between Sarah Jizhi Blackwood and Martin Blackwood, September 26th, 2020, taking place in St. Thomas’ hospital, London.)

“Hi, Mum.”

“Martin.” As always, his mother sounds less than thrilled to hear from him. He takes a deep breath, forces his shoulders to relax. 

“How’re you doing? I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve had a chance to call, there was a– a bit of an incident at work, so it’s been rather busy, and I’ve just not had the time. Sorry I didn’t get the chance to let you know about that.”

“It’s fine,” his mother replies, her voice sounding weaker than he remembers. He’d almost prefer her usual snappish, cold tone. “I am well, there’s been little change with my condition. Thank you for calling me.”

“Oh, that’s good to hear! Well, not– not really, but, you know, not worse is always good!” Martin says, stumbling over his words. Even with the practiced eloquence beaten into him from years of customer service jobs and floundering in casual conversation, his mother never fails to make him so painfully tongue-tied. 

“And you’re welcome!” he remembers to add, tone as bright as he can make it. “You can always call me though, you know!” 

“Yes, Martin. You say this every time we call.” 

“Oh, just wanted to make sure you knew, since you don’t–”

_You never call me, he wants to say. Ever._

“Hm?”

“Nothing! I’m glad you’re doing well, Mum. Has anything interesting been happening for you?”

A few beats of silence, and then she responds. “Nothing in particular.”

“How are your friends? I don’t think you ever mentioned their names, sorry-”

“They’re fine,” his mother says, cutting him off swiftly. “I’m feeling a bit tired, Martin, I think I might go have a lie down.”

Martin bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut so that the tears can’t escape and roll down his cheeks, stubbly from days without a shave. “A–alright Mum, rest up. I’ll call again soon. I love you.”

“Goodbye,” his mother says, and the call ends. 

He shoves the phone roughly back into his pocket, taking a deep shuddering breath. Removing his glasses, he swipes roughly at his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater before replacing the frames firmly on his face. Standing up, he winces as his joints protest slightly, and looks up and down the hospital corridors. It’s busy, enough so that no one really notices him or has the chance to talk to him. He’s just another person, crying alone in a hospital. 

There’s no telling whether that thought is a comfort or a hurt. 

“Right,” he says to himself, turning to walk down the corridor to room 514. He walks slowly, taking his time.

When he enters the room, he walks over to the window first, cracking it open slightly. The crisp autumn air flows into the room, making him shiver. He used to loathe autumn, but now, looking out and seeing all the leaves changing slowly into bright shades of crimson and gold, it’s almost beautiful. 

At last, he turns away to look at the patient lying unconscious in the bed behind him. 

“Hey, Jon,” he says quietly, taking a seat besides him. 

There’s no response, of course. But that’s alright. He can wait, after all. He’s always been good at that. 

Martin sits beside Jon’s bed until a chill has filled the room, and he goes to close the window.

(An attempt at a conversation over the phone, between Martin Blackwood and a member of staff at Silverleigh Nursing Home.)

Shaking hands fumble at the phone he dug out of the bottom draw of his desk moments ago, and he thumbs at the screen frantically, trying to bring it back to life. 

“Come on, come on, come on, _please–”_

At last, the screen flickers to life, glowing faintly in the dim room, lit only by the faint gleam of street-lamps through the window. He almost cries in relief, tapping in his password and then retyping it, again and again, his fingers fumbling and uncooperative. 

Finally, he’s in, and scrolls to his recent call history. The last call he had was with his mother, two months ago. It had lasted 7 minutes. 

He taps on it, and waits for someone to pick up. 

When the phone clicks at last, he almost throws it across the room in surprise.

“Hello, Silverleigh Nursing Home, how may I be of service today?”

“Hi, can I speak to– to Sarah Blackwood? It’s her son, Martin.”

There is a pause, a shuffling of papers, and then a brief silence. 

Then the voice returns, softer and sympathetic in a way that makes Martin want to retch. 

“We’re sorry, Mr. Blackwood, but Mrs. Blackwood is not accepting any calls right now.”

Distantly, he feels something freeze inside him, harden and turn to ice. He thinks it may be his heart. 

“That’s alright,” he forces out. “Do you know when she will be? And can I leave a message for her?”

Later, he will not remember this conversation at all, will have hidden it behind fog and the endless cold. 

“She hasn’t said anything about when she’ll be open for calls again, but I can take a message for you. Unfortunately, I cannot guarantee that she’ll be open to replying, or reading it.”

_She doesn’t want to hear from you._

“Sir? Did you still want to leave a message?” 

He exhales, feels his eyes fall closed. “No, it’s alright, thank you.”

“Have a good day, Mr. Blackwood.”

The call ends. He allows his head to fall into his hands. It’s freezing cold in the office (when did it get so cold?) and he feels empty. 

No tears fall. He’s never felt colder.

* * *

9 \- end of an era (redux)

When he gets the call from the nursing home, he is sitting alone in his office, eyes half lidded as his fingers click and clack along the black keyboard. The faint ringing of his cellphone just barely reaches him through the foggy haze that paperwork has lulled him into, and he fumbles for the phone with his right hand, tapping at the save button with his mouse before answering the call. 

He should’ve expected this. Very few people had his phone number, and even fewer were likely to call it. 

“Hello? Martin Blackwood, secretary to Peter Lukas speaking,” he answers automatically, still tuned into the secretarial mode that he’d grown accustomed to using with Peter’s– well, Elias’s, really– contacts. 

“Mr. Blackwood? This is Mauve from Silverleigh Nursing Home. Are you in a position to have a conversation at the moment?” 

He frowns, rubbing at his eyes wearily. “Er, yes, what’s this about?”

There is a fragile pause, heavy with what will soon arrive in its wake. The significance of silence is always dependent upon what isn’t being said in the moments that everything is, temporarily, still, and this silence is one fraught with something terrible about to be birthed. 

(“It’s about your mother, Mr. Blackwood.”)

Martin doesn’t feel a shiver down his spine, like the ones that so many poets and writers wax lyrical about, does not wince at a twinge in his heart. That heart-pounding, sickening feeling that is often portrayed in media does not claim him, does not swallow him whole. He’s not sure if he even knows in that moment what the call is for, like people always say they knew in the stories he reads. 

At the same time, though, he does know. He always has. 

(A man is trapped in a windowless room, with grey walls and a grey bed and a grey bathroom and grey books and a grey carpet and a grey ceiling. Every day, he is told that it is raining outside, and he is shown pictures, provided evidence that yes, it is indeed raining. 

But it is only on the seventh day, when he is released, that he can stand outside, as the rain pours down on his face, and see for himself the undeniable proof. 

It is raining.) 

Martin thought it would hurt more, really. It should. Fuck the useless drivel and all the people who can’t shut up about how ‘grief affects everyone differently, and there’s no shame in the way that different people handle it’. It should hurt more. 

He deserves to hurt more, at the very least. But all he feels is mildly numb, and very, very cold.

Once upon a time, he read something that said there was no such thing as cold. Merely an absence of heat. That, he thinks, is how he would describe what he’s feeling right now. Not cold, but an absence of heat. 

An absence. 

The woman from the home continues to speak, asks him a few questions that he responds to blankly, reflexively. Then, before hanging up, she asks if he’s alright. If he needs anything else from her. 

“Why would anything be wrong?” he asks, ridiculously. It’s a silly question, of course. Because everything is so obviously, painfully wrong here, that the question itself is ludicrous. Or perhaps, everything has been wrong for so long that it no longer matters. 

One of these is true. 

She hangs up after this. Leaning back in his chair, he closes the laptop, picks up his lukewarm mug of tea sat on the right hand side of his desk, and drains the remaining dregs. He hadn’t stirred it well enough earlier, and the sugar is collected at the bottom, leaving the last few sips to be nothin but syrupy sludge. It’s too sweet, makes his nose wrinkle, and he nearly gags at it. The sweetness doesn’t fit, thematically, with what’s just happened. 

_“She had a peaceful death.”_

__

__

“She was well looked after to the end.”

_“It was quite sudden, she couldn’t have called for you, there was no time.”_

A laughter echoes hollow in the cold, dim office, and rain streams down the window, because at least the weather is appropriate for the occasion, if not the tea, and there’s an absolute storm happening outside. Abruptly, he realizes the laugh is his, but it doesn’t feel like it, doesn’t feel like it’s really his. It doesn’t feel real, and neither does he. 

_God knows she wouldn’t have called for me, even if there was time._

The empty office doesn’t respond. 

Martin lets his eyes slip shut, and a slow exhale escapes from his lips, a breath he’s been holding for seconds, and for years. He listens as his heartbeat thuds slowly in his ears, and it’s not grounding, or reassuring, but it is something.

“Right,” he says, voice steady in the silent office, forcing himself not to flinch as the sound cuts through the quiet, a previously undisturbed peace that he has so delicately been maintaining. 

“Right.”

Prioritize. That was what his mother would say, wasn’t it? Be rational, and logical, and think, even if you’re never good at that, have never been good at that. Dreaming does no good, that’s been drilled into his head for long enough. 

He clears his throat. “What do I need to do?”

“You need to organize a funeral. The care home will take care of your mother’s things, but everything else is up to you. It can be a quiet affair, since there isn’t really anyone to invite, which makes it easier for you.”

“What next?”

“There’s not much else to do, thankfully.”

“No, I mean, what do I do with myself?”

There’s no answer. After all, when you’re talking to yourself, one can hardly expect an answer if one doesn’t know it for oneself. Only so much can be accomplished when you only have yourself to rely on. Therefore, if you’re clueless, without a notion of the next step, then. 

Well. Then, you keep going. 

Martin stands, collects his coat and personal effects from around the office, and leaves a sticky note on his desk in case Peter shows up. He walks out the door, shrouded in fog. Peter won’t mind that he leaves early, he never does. There’s a funeral to prepare for, after all, and those are ever so lonely. 

* * *

10 \- is this a family?

Much, much later, Jon and Martin are lying together on an old, beaten-up sofa, far away in the Scottish highlands. Outside the window, the sun is setting, and the chill begins to seep in through the stone walls. It’s peaceful, but not Lonely. Not now that Jon’s with him.

His head is cushioned in Martin’s lap, and his eyes are closed as Martin strokes through the grey-streaked hair, leaving half braids and little twisting curls in the wake of his careful fingers. He’s unused to dealing with long hair, and doesn’t remember the last time he helped his mother with her braids, but the muscle memory is returning, bit by bit. 

“Have I ever told you about my mum?” 

Jon blinks up at him languidly, almost cat-like. 

“I don’t think so, no,” he replies. “I don’t know much about her, apart from how she was in a care home. I think you mentioned that once, something about having to take a day off to visit her.” 

“Yeah, I did.” Martin focuses on weaving a more ornate braid into the strands of hair by Jon’s temple. The silence drags on, never uncomfortable, merely anticipatory. A coin is flipped, and the world holds its breath waiting for heads, or tails. 

Jon opens his eyes again, staring up at Martin. “You were saying?” he prompts gently, reaching a hand up to clasp Martin’s. 

“I wasn’t really,” Martin says with a shrug. “Saying anything, I mean. I just… I don’t know. Maybe it’s finally hitting me, just a bit. The fact that she’s dead.” He takes a shaky breath, wills himself not to cry. It’s a natural reaction, born from years of suppressing tears. Now, he’s not sure whether he could cry if he tried, or whether that’s a blessing or a curse. 

Jon waits for him to continue, squeezing Martin’s hand in his own. 

“And I, I don’t know, I never really got to mourn? Or at least, it feels like I didn’t. You know what everyone says, grief takes time to process, whether it’s immediately or years later. So I guess I’m processing it now.” 

He scrubs at his eyes, even though they’re still dry. “Honestly, I barely remember her death, I was so caught up in everything at the time. We weren’t close, either, during the end.” 

_That’s certainly an understatement,_ he thinks, and chuckles lightly. “What am I saying? She hated me.” 

Jon sits up slowly, rearranging himself so that he’s curled against Martin’s side, still holding his hand. “I’m sure she didn’t,” he says quietly, head buried in the crook of Martin’s arm. 

“No, no, she did,” Martin says. There’s no denying it, after all. Somehow, it doesn’t hurt to admit as much as he thought it would, not anymore. “Elias told me. Back when you were going off to the– the Unknowing. And Melanie and I were trying to sabotage him. He did the thing he does, his whole force-feed you your trauma deal.”

Jon squeezes his hand tightly once, a single, small acknowledgement, a show of support. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and although Martin knows it’s sincere, knows that Jon genuinely means it, he can’t help but feel, rather pettily, that the apology is useless. 

_You’ve come so far. From an incessant apologist to someone who loathes the very mention of the word “sorry”._

_Is this really better though?_ he argues. _Jon means well. And what else is there to say to that, really?_

“Not your fault,” he says eventually, as his eyes flutter shut. He’s suddenly tired. “Turns out, she hates me because I look too much like my father. Makes sense, I guess. I would hate anyone if they just left me with an eight year old kid. And I don’t know if they were ever happy together so I guess the reminder of him was all the more painful.”

Jon remains quiet, stroking Martin’s arm absentmindedly as he waits. The silence stretches on, but it isn’t cold, and for that Martin is grateful. 

“I don’t know.” He sighs, almost wishing he’d never spoken. Talking about it isn’t going to help, it’s not as though it’ll bring her back from the dead. “I don’t really know how I feel about her. It’s complicated.”

“What was she like?” Jon asks, and Martin smiles, his lips twisting as he casts his mind back to memories of her. 

“When I was younger? Alright. Depends how you see things, really. She was strict, wanted me to do my best, have a good future. That was all she cared about, really, making sure I had a good future. Same as any mum.”

A memory pops into his head, unbidden, of a night when she’d dragged him out after dark with a little paper lantern, to look at the moon. It had been so cold, and he hadn’t fully understood it, but she told him about the Mid-Autumn Festival, and he remembers listening, rapt with attention, as she told him story after story. About how she’d celebrated when she was younger, with her family back in Yunnan, about the moon, and its mythos. 

“She got worse as she got older. As I got older, I guess, since that was what made things bad.”

The nights spent alone, crying, because he had once again done something wrong, unintentionally but unmistakably wrong, and she was angry and it was all his fault–

“But she was sick. It wasn’t her fault. Some heart disease, can’t remember the name, but it was bad.”

He lapses into silence again. It’s hard to talk these days, but a different sort of difficulty from when he was younger, and scared stiff, far too anxious to utter a word. Back then, his throat closed in the presence of others, and he stammered so much his teachers believed he had some sort of speech impediment. 

Now, everything’s just so heavy. The world weighs down on him, suffocating, as if there was still a fog clouding his head. He knows it’s the shift from being Lonely, from the emptiness and the solitude, but normalcy is grating, almost painful. Easier to remain silent, to just barely exist in such a loud world. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Jon says awkwardly, and Martin feels his heart pang, dully, tugging at him through layers of fog and numb detachment. Because Jon may be awkward, and blunt, and frankly quite awful at all those social niceties, but he cares. He care so much, and it hurts to know that someone who’s gone through as much pain as Jon has can still be so nice, because then maybe–

Maybe his mother did choose to treat him the way she did. Maybe every cruel word she threw at him wasn’t just a product of her own suffering. Maybe she could’ve been better to him, and just chose not to. 

It’s selfish, he knows, to wish for that, when he doesn’t know her circumstances, and never will. But he aches to know, aches to have one last conversation with her and ask, honestly, whether she’d ever even loved him at all. 

But she’s dead. 

She’s dead, and he should miss her, and maybe he does, but. 

Martin is free. 

“Thank you,” he says at last, running his hands through the loose braids woven through Jon’s hair, undoing them carefully to avoid tangles. “It’s not anything you need to apologize for, but I do appreciate it. Really.” 

Jon nods, but doesn’t otherwise respond, content to let Martin pull his hair whichever way he desires. Another moment passes, and then Martin speaks, his voice breaking ever so slightly. 

“I never got to say goodbye. I think about that now, and I know she wouldn’t have wanted me there anyways, and I don’t know if, at the end of all things, I would’ve wanted to be there, but it hurts. After all those years we had together, after everything I went through with her, this is the ending I got. Nothing but a funeral to organize, and possessions to pack away.” 

Jon takes his hands gently, clasping his own around them. His hands barely wrap all the way around Martin’s but he does his best, tracing his thumbs in circular motions over Martin’s skin. The rough scars glide shakily over Martin’s hands, and he watches them go around, and around, feeling, feeling, as Jon centers him. 

“I know it wouldn’t have fixed things.” He can admit it to Jon, can admit that as much as he wants some sort of beautifully cathartic, Academy Award-winning scene of dramatic confrontation and a last, tearful apology before she went into that peaceful sleep, it would have never gone the way he wants it to have gone. His mother wouldn’t have apologized, he wouldn’t have been brave enough to say all that he wants to express. 

He doesn’t know what he’d want her to say. What use is an apology after 30 years of pain?

Jon’s hands tighten around his, and Martin turns to meet his gaze, eyes fiery and shining.

“Even if it wouldn’t have fixed everything, that doesn’t mean you didn’t deserve something. An apology, a conversation, whatever it is. You deserved more than what you got, Martin, and I am sorry that you didn’t get it. Don’t think that you aren’t worthy of someone’s time, or their love.” He says it adamantly, fiercely, and Martin almost believes him. 

Odd, isn’t it, to compare this Jonathan Sims, who is passionate, and softer around the frayed edges of himself, to the one that was once so painfully dismissive of him, the one Martin had a silly puppy crush on which evolved into a stupid, overcomplicated connection that had turned into love of all things, a connection he’d never been able to sever. Like his mother, and how he’d never been able to cut ties with her until the day she died. 

But he doesn’t want to cut ties with Jon now. He doesn’t need to. 

They sit together in the dimly lit cottage as the sun goes down, and Martin feels warm in the presence of someone he loves.

Gallery  
_Image IDs provided courtesy of each artist_

  
_vestolaris_  
[IMAGE ID: A rough pencil drawing of Martin and his mother, colored digitally. They are sitting at a table underneath a window with the blinds drawn, with the window in the center of the image. The table, floor, and blinds are all wood. The walls of the room are blue and have cracks in the walls. There is an overhead light with a green shade. Martin sits on the left side of the table in a red chair. He is a tall Chinese man with short dark hair and wearing square glasses, looking away from his mother with a troubled expression. He is wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans with white sneakers.His mother is also sitting in a red chair on the right side of the table. She is a small, thin woman with long hair reaching her mid back. Her face is covered by her hands and she is wearing a mustard yellow cardigan and black flats.] END ID

  
_corvidtowers_  
[begin photo ID: a digital drawing Martin visiting a grave on a rainy day. dark blue and grey clouds hover overhead. in the background, behind the gravestone is a tall tree. Martin stands in the foreground, to the left of the image. his whole body is shadowed. he’s holding an umbrella and stands, facing the grave. the grave stone is lit with a soft, glowing red light that also falls along the gravesite. the engraving of the gravestone is written in red. the small words at the top read: In loving memory. the large words in the middle reads: Ms. Blackwood. and the small numbers at the bottom read: 1933-2019. the small words in white at the very bottom of the gravestone is the artist’s signature and reads: corvidtowers. end ID] 

  
_vanroesburg_  
[begin photo ID: A digital drawing of a Jon and Martin, laying on the sofa together. Jon is a brown-skinned South Asian man with long, curly dark brown hair with grey streaks, and five o'clock shadow. He’s wearing a cream jumper and dark green shorts. Martin is a pale-skinned Chinese man with short, black hair and stubble on his chin. He’s wearing a blue-grey t-shirt. Martin is laying on his side, against the back of the sofa, his left arm thrown across Jon’s waist. Jon is lying on his back, on a pillow, his left arm around Martin’s shoulders and his right laid across his stomach. They both have their heads resting on the arm rest and are looking at each other. Next to the sofa is a small brown table with two steaming mugs of tea. One mug is wide and half-brown, half-cream-colored. The other is tall with small cat faces on it. Thrown over the back of the sofa are a blue knit blanket and a red flannel blanket over the blue one. end ID.] 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading! Be sure to check out all the artists linked in the notes, they do excellent work! Please leave comments and kudos, it helps me to know what kinda stuff y'all like to see, and is a very nice present :]


End file.
